Real
by cheeseypuff
Summary: Three years have rolled past Doctor John Watson since that horrific day at St. Bart's. During that time, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes has been busy taking apart Moriarty's web string by string. But there's one thing constantly on his mind; how is his blogger? Slight OOC, angst, drama, mentions of suicide, some cursing
1. Chapter 1

_**Hello, lovelies. I know it's been a while, but hopefully this will make up for it. I've been on a Sherlock kick for a couple of weeks now, and I've had this typed out for a couple of days. Let me know what you think! **_

_**Summary: Three years have rolled past Doctor John Watson since that horrific day at St. Bart's. During that time, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes has been busy taking apart Moriarty's web string by string. But there's one thing constantly on his mind; how is his blogger?**_

_**Rating: T for angst, drama, mentions of suicide, cursing **_

_**Slight OOC for John and Sherlock**_

_**Final Edit Word Count: 1,254**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock. BBC has claimed that right. I just do as I please with their characters. **_

_**I got my inspiration from reapersun's 30 Day OTP challenge on Tumblr. There will be a link on my profile if you want to check it out.**_

**_Enjoy! _**

* * *

John shuffled his way up the stairs to the flat of 221B. Today had been tiring beyond belief. Lestrade had texted him, asking for a medical opinion on a victim they recently found. He was already out of the flat and hailing a cab right after sending a reply to let the detective inspector know he was on his way.

He usually left the flat unlocked for Mrs. Hudson in case she wanted something, but she never left the door open, so when he reached the door and saw it cracked, he stopped dead in his tracks. John reached around to his back where he kept his pistol tucked into his pants and brought it around in a ready defensive position. Swinging the door open the rest of the way, he kept his eyes and ears open for any sounds that would alert him to where the intruder was.

He swung around quickly to look behind the door in case they were hiding there, but it was devoid of anything other than the shelf. Quietly, he latched it shut and locked it. He kept to the outer walls of the flat where the floor made the least sound. John didn't know if the intruder was still in the flat, so he wanted to be as silent as possible. Stealing on light feet, he finally reached the kitchen. His gun clattered to the floor as he stood there and looked at the man who was sitting at his table, shock and disbelief clearly written all over his features.

Sherlock could hear John from his seat in the kitchen. He looked toward the sitting room, waiting for John to make his way there. When he finally did, the detective's eyes went wide at what he saw but he quickly hid the feeling and steeled his gaze.

"Hello, John," his baritone voice shook John to his core, making the doctor gasp in pain as he fell to his knees. He couldn't seem to catch his breath and tears pricked the corner of his eyes as he stared at the linoleum of the kitchen floor. John's hands clenched his jumper as he tried to regain his breath and stop the tears from falling.

"Breathe, John. Come on, in and out," Sherlock's voice was right in his ear, his soft breath wafting over his entire face. Sherlock gripped the doctor's shoulders tightly, making sure John didn't fall over. The consulting detective closed his eyes as he held onto his friend, trying to will away the emotions that threatened to spill over. He knew John wasn't his normal self since his "death" but he didn't know it was this bad.

John was beginning to hyperventilate and the tears kept coming, spilling onto the floor in tiny droplets and running down the bridge of his nose. He looked up to find Sherlock's face incredibly close to his. To Sherlock's dismay, the doctor scrambled backward and cried out.

"No! Please God no, not again!" John's hand rose to his face, viciously wiping his face as he gasped and choked on air. "Please, no," the doctor whimpered and Sherlock's heart shattered into a million tiny pieces.

Sherlock stumbled backward into the table, making it slide across the floor and screech loudly. This made John cover his ears and cry out again.

"Please, John. I'm real, I'm here, I'm flesh and blood and alive. You have to snap out of this. Come back to me, John," Sherlock pleaded with the doctor. John just shook his head, hands still covering his ears and tears still pouring down his face.

John couldn't handle another hallucination, especially not one so real, so horribly, terrifyingly real. He had been doing so well this past year, sleeping like he should, eating a normal meal without having to worry about it staying in his stomach. He hated his mind for conjuring up this hell. Why couldn't he just live on without this pain and torment?

His hands grasped at the empty space in front of him, finally finding purchase on the wall to the right of him, and he hoisted himself up. John's stomach rolled and he gagged, covering his mouth uselessly as all the contents in his stomach came out in a torrent of bile and half-digested Chinese take-out.

Sherlock didn't look away from his friend has he spewed onto the carpet, concern creasing his eyes. He made his way over to the doctor and gripped his shoulder, trying to take him to the rest room to get cleaned up.

"NO!" John screamed out. "Don't touch me! Get away!" his hands shot out, catching Sherlock square in the face. His fist connected with the detective's nose and he heard a sickening crunch. Pain rocketed through the both of them and Sherlock yelped. John tried to get another hit in but Sherlock was too quick. He caught the doctor's hand just as it was about to make contact with his face again.

"John, stop, please. You have to stop. You're going to hurt yourself. Please," the detective begged.

"What do you care?" John sobbed, "You're just another one of my hallucinations. You're not real. You haven't been real for three years, Sherlock," his head fell onto Sherlock's chest and more tears fell and soaked into the detective's shirt. "Three years," John repeated, anguish souring his voice and closing his throat.

Those two words hurt Sherlock more than he could have imagined. Despair closed the detectives throat and threatened to drown him.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. It was a first for him, and it scared him. He held onto John for dear life and let him sob. Tears pricked his eyes and he slammed them shut. Liquid seeped from his eyes anyway, mingling with the blood dripping from his broken nose. John's free hand sought out the detective's jacket, trying to grip onto it.

"Please be real," he whispered. "Please, dear God, be real."

What did he do to his blogger?

* * *

_**I know it was kind of touchy feely, but hey, that's what this is about. It will progress as there are more parts to it, but it won't be overly drawn out. The chapter's will be relatively short and I don't know how many there will be, but just be patient with me. We'll get through this together. **_

_**~FooFoo**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Here is chapter two as promised! I had to listen to one of my saddest playlists to write this. It's heart-wrenching.**_

_**I should probably say that since I'm visiting with my parents for the next couple of weeks, my posting schedule will be sporadic. Chapter might be posted back to back like these two are, some may go on for days. I know next weekend we'll be going camping so no WiFi. *sad face* But stick with me and we'll get through this! :)**_

_**Summary: Three years have rolled past Doctor John Watson since that horrific day at St. Bart's. During that time, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes has been busy taking apart Moriarty's web string by string. But there's one thing constantly on his mind; how is his blogger?**_

_**Rating: T for angst, drama, mentions of suicide, cursing**_

_**Slight OOC for John and Sherlock**_

_**Final Edit Word Count: 1,915**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock. BBC has claimed that right. I just do as I please with their characters.**_

_**I got my inspiration from reapersun's 30 Day OTP challenge on Tumblr. There will be a link on my profile if you want to check it out.**_

**_Enjoy!_**

* * *

John knew he was dreaming. There wasn't any way this could be real, he thought. Sherlock could not be sitting by his bed as he feigned sleep. Of course, the detective would know if he were faking. He always knew. It was just another one of his hallucinations, but this one still felt so real. He could hear the air leave the detective's mouth in short gasps and tiny, almost silent whimpers. None of his other hallucinations had made a sound, let alone try to touch him.

John found himself wondering if this was indeed real. He knew he was broken, and he desperately wanted to see Sherlock just one more time before- no. He can't think like that. No matter how badly he wants to be with his detective again, he can't do that to Mrs. Hudson. The poor old woman wouldn't know what to do with herself if she lost both her boys. But oh, how he longed to hear the condescending, baritone voice making impossible deductions, he wanted to hear it tell Anderson and Donovan how wrong they were with their assumptions. He wanted to tell the man how amazing and brilliant he was and now he couldn't do that anymore.

Sherlock let his head go limp; he just sat there, listening to John's quiet breathing and mumbling. He didn't know what to expect last night while John slept. Mycroft had told him of his friend's frequent nightmares. He had also warned the younger Holmes what his return might do to the poor fellow. But Sherlock had just shooed him away and paid him no mind. John was a soldier. He was strong and brave and unbreakable. But when John cried out in the middle of the night and thrashed mercilessly in a tangle of sheets and Sherlock saw the tears glistening on the doctor's cheeks as they soaked into his pillow, he broke.

He let the tears fall and the emotions consume his entire being. He crawled into bed with John and wrapped quivering arms around the man, trying anything to get him calmed and quiet. Tears from both of the men fell and soaked into John's pillow.

"Oh John, what have I done? What can I do to make this stop, to make you happy again?" the detective whispered into the cool night air. John finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. This was how it always went; he would dream such horrible dreams, memories of such terrible proportion that they haunted him even when he was wide awake. After fits of crying and screaming and waking to find Mrs. Hudson in her nighty comforting him until he was calm enough to finally close his eyes without seeing the blood soaked face of his best friend, he would fall into a dreamless sleep. It was just black and lifeless.

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson stopped coming up to check on him. To be honest, he didn't even want her to in the first place. He didn't want the poor lady to witness him breaking apart. She'd had enough to deal with after Sherlock's death.

Sherlock, after a little while, rose out of the bed and sat in the chair situated next to it. He continued to listen to John's shallow breathing. He stayed there for the rest of the night, head in his hands, his mind racing out of control.

As a million thoughts and scenarios ran through the detective's head, he heard the soft patter of feet as John got out of bed and made his way to the sitting room. Sherlock followed quickly behind him, desperate for his friend to react to him, to show that he knew Sherlock was there, in flesh and blood, that he wasn't indeed a hallucination like he thought the day before. He wanted his blogger to acknowledge him as a human being, alive and breathing, and it pained him when John didn't so much as look at him when they both sat down.

"John… John, please look at me," Sherlock tried again to get the doctor to respond to him. "I'm real, John Hamish Watson, and alive and so are you. You can't keep ignoring me. I'll try my hardest to get you to talk to me. I won't give up on you," Sherlock moved to crouch in front of his closest friend, thinking that another try at contact will finally get him to break out of whatever John has fallen into.

Just as the detective's hand landed on John's knee, John's raspy voice could barely be heard, "There was a time when I thought you were real, that you were always here with me after-" he choked on the words, unable to form them. He started again, almost gasping for air as the words left his lips, "Am I crazy, Sherlock? Have I finally lost it? After all this time, have I finally gone mad?" The doctor swallowed thickly, emotion making it hard to breath.

Sherlock sat there, tears brimming around his eyes at his friends' words. No, John wasn't crazy, he thought. He was anything but crazy. He was wonderful and amazing and brilliant, and brave. Sherlock had never met a braver person in all of his years.

John continued as Sherlock sat there, saying nothing, "You know, maybe being mad isn't such a bad thing. After all, you were the maddest of us all. And you were more brilliant than any of us. Lestrade, he once told me that you wouldn't want to see me like this. He said you would deny that anything happened to me. I said that once, to my therapist, before we met. He also told me that you thought I was resilient and fearless. Well, I guess we can throw that little idea out of the window," he chuckled once. It was a hard sound and Sherlock didn't like it coming from the doctor.

"I was so scared and alone, Sherlock," John's lips quivered as he spoke louder. "For the first few weeks, I was so optimistic that you would return in some idiotic fashion and we would continue on with our insane life. Chasing after serial killers and maniacs, only to be thrown for a loop time and time again and then you'd solve the case time and time again like always," he rubbed his face, wiping the tears from his eyes. "But when two weeks turned into two months and then two months turned into six, I didn't know what to do. I kept holding out, waiting for the day when I'd find you sitting at the kitchen table examining a slide of something and muttering about nothing. But it never came. Slowly, that first year rolled by and I didn't want to do anything in hopes that something would turn up. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would check on me, bring me food and tea or coffee in hopes that I would eat," he looked up to find those curly locks he missed so much. Hesitantly, he brought his hand up and rested it on top of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock choked back tears at what he was hearing. Why had Mycroft never told him of this before? John had been completely miserable, and it was entirely his fault. John hadn't deserved this. He should have told his best friend what was going to happen, what his plan was. But in the back of his mind, Sherlock knew that John would have insisted on coming with him and he needed the doctor as safe as possible.

"It wouldn't stay down, though. No matter how hard I tried to keep food in me, it never worked. I couldn't keep liquids down, either," the doctor sniffled.

"You have no idea how much I miss you, Sherlock," he cried, bringing his head down to the hand resting on top of Sherlock's head and for a minute. He sobbed uncontrollably, his body shaking so much that his head fell from his hand and landed on the detective's shoulder.

"Oh, my poor blogger, I had no idea how much this would affect you," Sherlock whispered into John's hair. He didn't know what to do for his friend considering he wasn't one for dealing with other's feelings. But when it came to John, Sherlock would tear the whole world apart to see him happy.

All of a sudden, everything became very still. You could hear a pin drop in the room it was that silent. John had stopped breathing, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Finally he breathed in, gasping and pushing Sherlock away from himself. The detective landed on his rear with a huff. It was like John had an epiphany and was just now realizing something he should have known all along. It was just like Sherlock would have done on a case if he missed something.

It finally came to him; this illusion wasn't an illusion at all. It was real, so very real he could reach out and grab it. It was staring him straight in the face and he was stupid enough to not believe it for what it was. It was _real_. John let his breath out in a desperate huff as his hands clenched by his side and he reached down towards the very real man sitting on his floor.

"John? What is it? What's wrong?" Sherlock asked as John grabbed his coat and brought him back to his feet.

* * *

_**This chapter is rather long. I started writing it this morning and just pretty much haven't stopped except to eat and for rest room breaks. Also, my grandmother visited for a while so that took up a lot of time, or else this would be out by now. **_

_**Thank you to everyone who has followed or favorited so far! It really means a lot to me that so many people are enjoying this story.**_

_**Chapter Three is currently underway and should be posted within the next couple days. **_

_**~FooFoo**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter three already! It's been pretty rough writing this story. I've had to listen to a lot of depressing music and look at a lot of depressing shit for this to come to me. But if it helps get the story out, I am not complaining. **_

_**I forgot to mention this story isn't beta'd so all mistakes are mine. Please do forgive me if there are any. I take time to read through every chapter and edit stuff if I find anything but sometimes I do miss little things.**_

_**Summary: Three years have rolled past Doctor John Watson since that horrific day at St. Bart's. During that time, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes has been busy taking apart Moriarty's web string by string. But there's one thing constantly on his mind; how is his blogger?**_

_**Rating: T for angst, drama, mentions of suicide, cursing**_

_**Slight OOC for John and Sherlock**_

_**Final Edit Word Count: 1,134**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock. BBC has claimed that right. I just do as I please with their characters.**_

_**I got my inspiration from Day One of reapersun's 30 Day OTP challenge on Tumblr. There will be a link on my profile if you want to check it out.**_

**_Enjoy!_**

* * *

"Three years, three hellish years, Sherlock Holmes," the doctor shook Sherlock, anger rising to the forefront of a million emotions that ran through his body. "You let me believe you were dead for three years and I had never been so alone and felt so useless in my entire life. How could you do that, Sherlock? How—Why—Jesus, Sherlock," his knees buckled under the onslaught and he started to fall, but his grip on the detective's coat kept him upright. Sherlock's hands shot out to catch John before he fell, grabbing his arms just below his elbows.

"I know, and I wanted to tell you, honestly, I did, but I had to have you believe that I had killed myself. It was the only way I could—" Sherlock stopped.

"Could what, Sherlock? What could be so important that you couldn't even tell me about it? You can't tell me, can you? Sentiment, right? Still the same, old Sherlock," John shook his head and laughed once. "You just have to have your little secrets, don't you? Heaven forbid you tell anyone that could've actually helped you! No, Sherlock. I was right that day. You are a machine. There was so much I wanted to tell you and take back that I couldn't sleep at night. You know what my therapist said? That I should have moved on, that I should have stopped dwelling on the little things and started to live my life again instead of focusing everything I had on you!" John's voice rose to a shout and he pushed away from the detective. "And she was right, I should have moved on. You're nothing but a waste of my time, Sherlock Holmes. I can't believe how bloody daft I was to believe in you," John's next words stabbed Sherlock in the gut like a hot knife, serrated and twisted. "Leave, and don't come back."

Sherlock felt like a huge blow had struck his chest. He couldn't breathe and his vision blurred.

"Please, John, listen to me. What I did, I did for you and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. You have to believe—"

"Believe you, Sherlock? I believed you for the longest time. Honestly, I did. I don't regret a single day we had together, but those three years were the worst I've had in my entire life. When you died, I lost a brother. I lost my best friend and I never thought I'd see him again," tears were cutting paths down John's cheeks.

"You were my best friend, Sherlock," the detective couldn't help but notice the past tense of the word. "I thought you'd always be here, working on your crazy experiments in the kitchen, shooting more holes in the wall in the name of your infuriating boredom, but most importantly, driving me up the bloody wall. You say you did it for me and for Mrs. Hudson, even Greg. But let me ask you this, why couldn't we know? Your closest friends and we couldn't even know about it. Why is that? Just answer me that, Sherlock," John eyed Sherlock, waiting for the detective to answer as more tears fell.

Sherlock's voice was quiet and foreign as he answered, "I had to have you believe I was dead for the plan to work. If you didn't grieve properly, the plan would have failed and you would have been hunted down and killed and I couldn't live with myself if I knew that was going to happen to you. There is your reason, John. I care too much for you to let you die for my mistakes. Is that what you wanted to hear?" Blue-green eyes softened and shined with something John had only seen when he was acting during a case. Sherlock Holmes was crying.

They stood there, not knowing how to react to one another. Sherlock never showed this kind of emotion around John.

John was the first to break the silence and stillness, "I don't want you to leave. I can't deal with that again," he moved towards Sherlock and grabbed his arms. "Please, never again. Just, please."

"Never again," Sherlock agreed.

A loud pop rang in the air and they both looked at each other, but Sherlock was staring at John like there was something on his face.

"Sherlock—" John choked on something before he could finish his sentence. Pain shot through his entire body and when he looked down, he saw red leaking from his side.

He had been shot.

* * *

_**Please don't kill me! This is kind of crucial to what I have planned. I know this chapter was shorter than the others, but I've been really busy visiting with the family. I forgot how rambunctious my younger sister could be. So again, please forgive me for anything that I may have missed. **_

_**For those of you who might be wondering why Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or even Mycroft haven't made an appearance in this yet, they will be. Just hang on for a little while longer. I promise they'll be in it.**_

_**Thanks again for all the follows and favorites, now if only I could get some feedback on how I'm doing. Reviews are more than welcome, even the hateful ones. Or anon hate on Tumblr is even welcome (cheeseypuff). **_

_**Chapter four should be up within a couple of days. **_

_**~FooFoo**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter four is up! And it's very long as a treat for waiting so long. I never thought I'd get this beast up. It's taken me three days to write and perfect. Draft after draft after draft got deleted and remade and worked over and fixed until finally, I was happy with it. I have to say, the deductions in this were a hell of a lot of fun to write so I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.**_

_**I forgot to mention this story isn't beta'd so all mistakes are mine. Please do forgive me if there are any. I take time to read through every chapter and edit stuff if I find anything but sometimes I do miss little things.**_

_**Summary: Three years have rolled past Doctor John Watson since that horrific day at St. Bart's. During that time, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes has been busy taking apart Moriarty's web string by string. But there's one thing constantly on his mind; how is his blogger?**_

_**Rating: T for angst, drama, mentions of suicide, cursing**_

_**Slight OOC for John and Sherlock**_

_**Final Edit Word Count: 6,867**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock. BBC has claimed that right. I just do as I please with their characters.**_

_**I got my inspiration from Day One of reapersun's 30 Day OTP challenge on Tumblr. There will be a link on my profile if you want to check it out.**_

**_Enjoy!_**

* * *

Two days had rolled by and not a single movement or slight inclination he was going to wake up anytime soon. Sherlock blinked his eyes and folded his hands under his chin as he listened to the monotonous tone of the heart monitor. He stopped muttering to himself, deductions to pass the time even though they were so very obvious; John's constant breathing, life, slight grimace, pain but very little, the little movements of his hands and feet, restlessness.

It seemed like this was a reoccurring moment, him sitting by John's bedside as he slept while his own thoughts ran rampant. Blood… there was so much blood. Sherlock's mind was stained with it and he didn't think it would ever come out.

There was one particular image that haunted Sherlock every waking moment; the way John said his name before he collapsed. It burned in his mind, leaving a scar that ached constantly. It was nothing like the anguished cry of his name that day at Bart's. It was so much worse.

Lestrade had been by after hearing about the shooting at Baker Street. He didn't know who would be with John when he arrived, but he sure wasn't expecting the very person he thought to be dead. He was furious at Sherlock. A slew of profanities found their way out of the detective inspector's mouth as he spotted Sherlock for the first time in three years. Sherlock knew there would be repercussions like this. He just hadn't expected it with John. But then again, John always surprised him at every turn.

After a couple more minutes of having to listen to the monitor, he decided he'd had enough of it. It had been a while since he'd eaten anything and he really wanted something, anything to eat. He knew the measly offerings in the hospital's café wouldn't satisfy his craving. He wanted something real, something that wouldn't make him gag, but he couldn't stand the thought of leaving John in case he woke up.

He decided the café food would suffice even though it would most likely upset his stomach. The detective made his way to the café slowly, his thoughts once again consuming him. _Who shot at them? Where did they come from? Who are they working for? _ He was pretty sure he'd taken care of Moriarty's web, so who? Who would be so bloody daft as to pull a stunt like that in front of him?

As he continued to worry about it, the café came into view, people milling about inside the confined area getting soggy sandwiches and bags of crisps from vending machines along the walls. Sherlock walked up to one of the machines holding various types of crisps; there were seasoned, rippled, and traditional. He put a bill into the machine and punched in the first combination he saw. A bag of traditional crisps fell into the catch and he grabbed them quickly, hurrying to return to the room.

* * *

"_Sherlock!... Don't. Be. Dead… Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this…"_

John awoke with a start, shooting up in bed only to be jerked back down by something. He felt around on his face for a few seconds before he realized there was a tube jutting out from his nose. Only then did he see that he wasn't in his room back at 221B. He was in a hospital.

He tried again to sit up, instantly regretting the action as his side pulsed and he fell back with a groan. Lifting his arm gently, the doctor gasped. There were bandages littering his side, blood spotting the entire area. What happened? Why was he in the hospital and why were there bandages wrapped around him?

He glanced about the place, noticing very few things that stood out of place in the white room. The one thing he noticed right away was the long coat hanging off the chair next to his bed. He had seen that coat so many times in his dreams. Now, though, he knew it wasn't a dream. He remembered that day, and the day before that.

John could hear footsteps outside in the halls, some rushed, others were slow paced and calm. There was a particular set of footfalls approaching his room though; a set he knew could only belong to one person.

He tried scooting back so that he was sitting up instead of lying down. John hated how vulnerable he felt in that position. Placing his hands on the bed, he pushed up. He grunted in pain but pushed back until he could feel the pillows on his lower back.

* * *

As Sherlock neared the room, he heard a grunt. He doubled his pace and rounded the corner to find John sitting up with a grimace marring his features.

"John, what are you doing?" concern furrowed the detective's brow.

"What does it look like I'm doing, Sherlock?" John didn't look at the man, glancing about the room but keeping his eyes from landing on the one thing he wanted to see. "I'm sitting up. I've been lying down for who knows how long and I want to sit," the doctor laid his hand over the bandages. "Mind telling me how long I've been out?"

Sherlock noticed the little glances around the room, his eyes landing upon everything but him. The detective threw his bag of crisps on the chair and went to stand by his blogger.

"Around two days. You were shot in the side. Thankfully, the round missed everything vital. The entrance wound, a couple inches under your left arm, the exit wound is situated approximately right under your left collar bone. You should heal up nicely, according to the nurses and doctors, although you'll have two scars—"

"Three," John interrupted.

"Yes, right, three scars now," Sherlock had forgotten the scar from his time during the war.

The consulting detective went to the door to close it. He knew this was going to be a conversation for just them. He only wished there was a "Do Not Disturb" sign he could place on the handle no matter how cliché that seemed.

John noted Sherlock was somewhat back to his old self; Stiff, precise, straightforward. But he lacked the coldness that at one time clouded his eyes. Now, his eyes seemed to sway and flicker with emotion. The doctor remembered a time long ago when Sherlock had asked him, 'Will caring about them help save them?' He had answered no; of course it wouldn't save them. But it wouldn't stop him from caring.

He thought Sherlock to be cold, heartless even, and yet here the detective was, standing in his hospital room when no one else came.

Finally, he looked at Sherlock meaning to ask him another question, but as his eyes landed on the man, he couldn't speak. He was pretty sure he looked like a fish gasping for breath. Sherlock looked like the walking dead; his hair sticking up in a disheveled mess, eyes sunken in, bags under them making him looked bruised and worn.

Sherlock didn't notice the pair of eyes that bored down on him. He was too busy thinking, his mind wandering places he didn't want to go.

"Sherlock, you okay?" the doctor asked, but Sherlock didn't hear him at first. The detective's mind seemed to spiral out of control, raging downward into the dark recesses he kept locked away.

"Sherlock!" John called louder.

"What?" Sherlock whirled around, eyes landing on John. "What is it?"

"Are you alright? You seem a little… lost in thought."

"Quite, yes. Sorry," he apologized, surprising the doctor. "Thinking about some things that need taken care of when we get back to the flat," he didn't want John to worry about him. Especially when he needed to worry about himself until he was completely healed.

"Okay, so when do I get out of this blasted place? I feel like I need a shower and a good nap despite all the sleeping I've apparently been doing," John laughed lightly, trying to get Sherlock to break out of whatever slump he was in.

Sherlock smiled at John. It seemed he was back to himself despite everything he'd been through these past four days. Had it really been four days since he'd showed up at the flat? It felt like a day had come and gone in a blink of an eye.

"You've been injured quite badly, of course you've been sleeping. Your body can't take that much damage before it shuts itself down to start the healing process."

"Okay," he repeated. "That still doesn't tell me when I get out of here, Sherlock," the doctor stared at Sherlock. He moved a little, wincing as the bandages pulled at his side.

Sherlock unconsciously moved closer to John, noticing his discomfort and wanting to help anyway he could, but stopped himself.

"Do you want me to call a nurse? It has been a while since your last dosage. You need to stay still so—"

"Sher—" John closed his eyes as Sherlock continued to ramble about his safety.

"—you can heal faster," Sherlock started for the door.

"Sherlock! Stop, I'm fine," he opened his eyes to spy Sherlock just about to open the door. "Don't touch that door. If I need anything, I'll let you know. What's got into you?" he asked the detective.

Why did Sherlock go from being his normal self to caring in a split second? He was never like this. Unless something changed him, which John didn't think would ever happen.

Sherlock stopped mid-step, rocking back on his heels and turning to face his blogger. _'Better get it out now,' _he thought.

"It's my fault," he blurted out suddenly. "It's my fault you're in this damn place. If I hadn't come back, if I'd just left you alone, none of this would have happened. I knew there was a chance you were still being watched and I went anyway," he started pacing the room feverishly. "My own selfish need to see you again after what Mycroft told me—" Sherlock slapped a hand over his mouth. He never intended to tell John he was having Mycroft watch him.

"What?" John nearly shouted. "What do you mean, _what Mycroft told you?_ You—" John shut his eyes and breathed through his nose, calming himself so as not to alert the nurses. "You were having Mycroft watch me? So he knew the entire time that you were alive, and he didn't tell me," Sherlock visibly cringed at the hatred in John's eyes and the pain in his voice. "He let me believe you were dead and even went on to act like he was mourning for your death as well! Oh, you Holmes brothers are starting to become downright despicable," he shook his head.

"No wonder he sent me all those texts. Of course, I never answered his calls either! You want to know why?" John was visibly shaking now, his hands grasping at the sheets and his wounds forgotten in the rush of anger-filled adrenaline. "Because it hurt too much, Sherlock," his eyes turned on Sherlock. "It hurt to think of one Holmes without thinking of the other," John lowered his head, suddenly too tired to argue anymore. And why should he yell at the man when he wasn't so much as putting up a fight?

"I never— I didn't think—I didn't know how much it was going to hurt you. All I knew was that you were strong, independent, and could handle anything I threw at you," his voice was gruff from the feelings coursing through his body, making his knees shake and his vision swim. "The last thing I threw at you, when I fell, I had no idea how much it would break you. Mycroft, he told me that you weren't doing so well. It wasn't long after my fall that he told me this, so I just wrote it off as grief," Sherlock continued to pace around the room, grabbing at his air and wiping his face to keep the emotions from surfacing. "Everyone grieves at some point, some longer than others. But when a year passed, and I was still off in places, still hunting Moriarty's men," Sherlock's face paled, "and Mycroft said you still hadn't improved, I ignored him. I still told myself you were grieving still. After all, you don't watch your friend throw himself off of a building and still be able to go about your life like nothing happened at all. I may not show sentiment, but I know how they work. And then he told me about what you did, going onto the rooftop intending to throw yourself of off it. John—" The detective stopped and looked into John's eyes.

"How did he know—" It hit John like a truck. "The CCTV… He saw me up there. I should have known—"

Sherlock was at John's bedside kneeling, grabbing the doctor's hand into his own and squeezing.

"John, if I had known that was how you felt, if I had an ounce of knowledge that that was how you were taking my death, I never would have left." John stared at Sherlock, tears threatening to fall at the words the detective spoke softly.

There was a knock at the door just then. Detective Inspector Lestrade came strolling in and stopped when he spotted the two.

"Is everything alright here?" he asked, looking about the room. John swiped his eyes, clearing them of the tears and spoke.

"Yeah, Greg. We were just talking about some things. Uhm, come in. Sit down, please," John motioned to the chair where Sherlock's coat still laid draped over the back.

Sherlock stood and also wiped his face, not because of the tears that also blurred his vision, but to once again put on the façade that was Sherlock.

"What brings you here, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked as the detective inspector sat down. He had a cup of something in his hand and what looked to be takeout in the other.

"I just thought I'd bring John some decent food, for once. Good to see you alive and talking, by the way. Hospital food can't be that tasty, can it? Looks like something out of 'The Blob,'" he laughed and then handed John the bag. "It's from that Chinese place 'round the corner from 221B. Thought you'd like that, it being something you always got," Lestrade looked at Sherlock next, "Still haven't left, have you? Go on, go home and take a shower or a nap or something. It looks like you haven't slept in a week."

Sherlock knew the man was being nice, but he just couldn't bring himself to listen. He would stay here until John was released.

John glanced at Sherlock, "Yeah, I'll be fine with Greg here. It'll be nice to catch up on some stuff I've missed over the past few days."

Sherlock attempted to argue, but one look from the both of them shut him right up.

"I am feeling somewhat drained," Sherlock mumbled. "Maybe a nice, hot shower will do me some good."

"You'll be back, though?" The look on John's face said, _'You better be coming back or I will kill you this time.'_

Sherlock nodded and made his way to the door while listening intently as Lestrade told John about a case they'd been having some trouble on; something about a triple murder in Cardiff, bodies found in an abandoned building in nothing but their skin. He heard John ask how long they'd been dead but was out of the door before he heard Lestrade's answer.

The entranceway of the hospital greeted him as he swung the door open and stepped out into the fresh air. Sherlock looked down to the spot where, just a couple of years ago, he had laid, covered in blood as his best friend checked his pulse. The detective looked away and stopped at the road, hailing a cab and telling the cabbie the address.

His phone rang but he didn't answer. He knew who it was and he did not want to talk to the man he called his brother at this very moment. What John had told him angered him to no end.

How could Mycroft let this happen? He was supposed to watch John, make sure he didn't do anything stupid. His blood boiled in his veins as he stared at the screen, a ping alerting him to a text.

_You and I need to talk, dear brother. MH_

He texted Mycroft back, fingers flying over the keys. His anger consumed his entire being.

_You and I have nothing to speak of, Mycroft. SH_

His phone alerted him a few seconds later.

_It's about the shooter who injured John. I'm sure you'd want to know what it is. MH_

_What about him? Make it quick for I have not the patience to deal with drabbles, brother. SH_

_We've found him. MH_

Sherlock stopped breathing, his anger renewed and also his relief. He quickly told the cabbie the new address and threw a couple of bills over the seat. "And make it quick," he stared down at his phone, reading the three words over and over.

He would make the bastard pay for what he'd done to John. That, he thought, he could be sure of.

* * *

"So what happened between you and Sherlock? You looked pretty shaken up," Lestrade spoke around a mouthful of food.

"Nothing," John mumbled, "We were just discussing what happened at the flat. I moved wrong, my side hurt me a little and he was checking on me, believe it or not," John laughed. "So, have you found anything else out about the triple murder?" He tried to change the subject. John didn't want to talk about Sherlock.

"All we've got are names, occupation, and age for two out of the three. Just that the woman's name is Amanda, late twenties to her early mid-thirties, had a husband and two kids, worked at a law firm in London," he paused, trying to remember some of the details of the other man.

"One of the men's names was Martin, 41 years old, fairly new classical actor, lived in Hertfordshire until a few months back when he moved to central London with his girlfriend. As for the other victim, we have nothing. I was kind of hoping you could talk to Sherlock about taking the case. I hate to admit it, but we've been having very poor luck identifying victims and suspects without him," Lestrade took another bite of the noodles John gave him.

"I'll see what I can do," was John's only answer.

* * *

The cab arrived at the building. Throwing a couple more bills over the seat, Sherlock exited the cab and watched as it drove off. He heard the tapping of a cane, or umbrella, on the steps behind him.

Turning without looking at the man standing on the top step, he greeted him with one word, "Where?"

"Follow me. I must warn you beforehand, though. He's not much of a speaker," Mycroft grimaced as he watched his brother throw the doors open and stride in without a glance in his direction.

"I won't say it again, Mycroft," Sherlock finally leveled his eyes at his older brother.

"Manners, brother," Mycroft spoke quietly. "This is a government building after all. Wouldn't want to cause a scene now, would we?" Mycroft grinned devilishly at Sherlock as he walked past him, swinging his umbrella about on his hand.

"Damn it to hell, Mycroft! Just tell me where he is!" Sherlock's voice resonated throughout the foyer, causing everyone to look at them both.

"Like I said, _brother,_ follow me and keep your voice down. I would hate to have you escorted out by the guard," Mycroft walked on and through a doorway off to the right. Sherlock followed, his shoes clicking on the marble floor in a fast pace. After a couple more turns down more hallways and doors, Mycroft stopped and turned, poking Sherlock in the chest with his umbrella.

"You are not to kill him. No matter what he says, or doesn't say, you are to interrogate him _only_. I'm only allowing you to do this because for whatever reason, we can't get him to speak," Sherlock swiped the offensive object off his chest and grimaced at Mycroft. "I mean it, Sherlock. I don't want to have to escort you out by force."

"Fine, now get out of the way," the detective pushed passed and opened the door to the room.

The man wasn't at all who Sherlock thought it would be. He had sandy blonde hair with matching stubble littering his lower face. Sherlock took one look at him; _mid-twenties, factory worker, assassin on the side, powder burns littering his fingers from numerous gunshots, old scars on his wrist indicating past self-harming, bags and dark circles under his eyes showing a lack of sleep, probably from his side job, wounds to the side of his head and face, Mycroft's men's previous attempts at getting the man to speak, dirty jacket, ripped at the elbow and shoulder, slight scuffle from when he was apprehended indicated from the dust and tiny bits of rock lodged in the knees of his pant legs and front of his jacket. _Sherlock grinned at the man.

"Who are you?"

The man refrained from speaking, opting only to look at Sherlock with a crooked smile.

"I'll ask you one more time, _who are you?_" Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.

"Who wants to know?" Russian. _Well, this changes things, _Sherlock thought.

"I do, now tell me your name," Sherlock grabbed the empty chair on the other side of the room and situated it so he could sit face to face with the assassin.

The man looked away from Sherlock, spitting blood on the floor.

"Tell. Me. Your. Name!" Sherlock lunged out of his chair, grasping onto the man's tattered coat and shook him. He could imagine Mycroft sighing dramatically at his antics and he smiled for a second, a devilish grin appearing on his face.

"Alright, alright, calm down. Yeesh…" the Russian man rolled his eyes.

"My name is Viktor Dyachenko. Are you happy now?" Sherlock had been looking for this man for a while now. He never figured out what he looked like, but he knew all about him. Professionally trained assassin from Volgograd, very good at what he does, but not good enough to keep from getting caught, apparently.

Mycroft was situated behind the one way glass. Once he heard the last name, he threw a hand over his mouth. _The Russian Assassin's brother, perhaps?_

"Not as happy as I should be," Sherlock stood and circled around him like a hawk stalking its prey. "I know everything about you, _Viktor. _I've been hunting you for quite some time now. Well, ever since your sister tried to kill me that day. I knew she wasn't the only one. Famed in Russia for various deaths, so on and so forth, but not great. No, you're far from great, mediocre perhaps. Just like your dear sister. Maybe not even that. Of course, you knew the possibility of killing me was close to impossible, so why even try? Hmm? What could you possibly want from me that you don't already have?" Sherlock circled once more around before settling back into the chair and crossing his legs.

"You know what I want. It's what everyone wants. It's what my sister tried to get all those years ago but failed. Revenge on her, Mr. Holmes, will be swift to you and anyone who gets in the way," his mouth moved around, seeming to situate something in between his teeth and he bit down.

"No! DAMN IT!" Sherlock shouted as men suddenly crowded the room and Dyachenko choked to death.

_Cyanide pill, how could I have missed that?! _Sherlock berated himself, leaving the room. Mycroft wasn't far behind him as they both made their way to the entrance of the building.

"What rotten luck. At least we know who he was and what he wanted," Mycroft tried to console his raging brother.

"That doesn't tell us anything!" Sherlock yelled once they were out of the building.

"I believe it tells us a lot. Think, Sherlock, remember what it was those assassins wanted. What was it that Moriarty 'planted' on you? Think!"

The detective ran through his memories of those days. What was it that Moriarty did? He couldn't concentrate because of Mycroft's incessant tapping of his umbrella— the tapping, the code, the key to every door in the world. That's what it was! Oh, how could he be so dull?

Mycroft caught the look of recognition on the younger man's face and he smiled.

* * *

"Well, I guess I'd better be off. I only stopped by because I was on lunch and wanted to you about the case. Hurry up and get better so you and Sherlock can get back on cases. I know you're dying for one," Lestrade laughed and got up, causing Sherlock's coat to fall to the ground.

"I will. See you around, Greg," John watched carefully as the detective inspector left the room, shutting the door softly. He sighed and dropped his head, bringing his hand up to rub his eyes. Lestrade's visit had taken a toll. He still wasn't used to having to stay in a bed for any amount of time.

He looked over at the clock hanging on the wall. It was getting late, almost passed visiting hours. He was sure Sherlock would be back before then.

John grabbed the remote off to his right and turned the television on. He flipped through various channels, finally settling on come crappy game show. He scooted back down into a laying position, draping his right arm over his chest and touched the bandages.

_A couple more days, _he thought. _A couple more days and it'll be back to the same life before, romping through the city, chasing criminals and solving cases._

Lestrade's talk of the triple murder excited him. He wondered if this was how Sherlock felt every time he got a new, interesting case.

Another knock came from the door and a nurse peeked in.

"You doing okay, dear?"

"Fine," he smiled, glancing at her as she checked the monitors and adjusted something, probably giving him another dosage of his pain medicine. "My side is bothering me a little bit, though."

"Okay, let me get your dressings nurse in here to check on it right away. It may need changing."

She reminded John of Mrs. Hudson with her caring nature and soft spoken voice.

The door clicked shut a few seconds after she left and John sighed again. He laid still, staring at the glaring lights above his head while he waited for the nurse to come and check on him.

A sturdier knock reverberated through the room as the door opened to reveal a man.

John glanced over and stared at him.

"Your side's bothering you, I hear. Let me just look at it and see what I can do."

John continued to stare, open-mouthed, as the nurse made his way to John's bedside.

So this was his dressings nurse? He was expecting a woman, not a young man. Although, nowadays, it wasn't really that surprising.

"Looks like you need some new wrappings, clean it up a bit. It shouldn't be too much of a problem, though. Can you sit up for me?"

John clenched his jaw and screwed his eyes shut as he planted both hands on either side of his torso and heaved with a groan.

"There we are, nicely done. Didn't hurt too much, did it?" John shook his head no as he breathed in through his nose and exhaled out his mouth to control the pain. He felt the man grab hold of his left arm carefully, hoisting it into the air so he could undo his current wraps.

John sighed in relief as the cool air touched his hot skin. He stole a glance at his wound, staring at the puckering right below his collar bone. It would be a nasty-looking scar, indeed, one that would have to be hidden with various jumpers and jackets.

He looked away, letting the man work without disturbance. Another knock came, this one sounding metallic. Dark, curly hair popped in, followed by piercing blue eyes and pointy cheekbones.

The nurse looked up and grinned. "Hello there, Mr. Holmes. How are you doing?"

Sherlock smiled at the man, "Just fine, thank you. Changing his dressings, I see? How is it looking?"

John continued to stare off into space as the two men conversed quietly about his wound. He caught snippets here and there, but otherwise he wasn't listening intently.

"Okay, there we are, all done with fresh bandages and gauze. You'll have some slight spotting of blood around the wound, but that's normal. Be careful of any strenuous movements so you don't tear your stitching. I would hate to have to redo it. If you have anything more than spotting, hit the buzzer and a nurse will be right in to check on you. Anything else?" he moved to the trashcan by the sink, throwing away the ruined wrappings and washing his hands.

Both Sherlock and John shook their heads no. "Okay, then. I'll leave you two alone."

The door clicked shut quietly behind him and Sherlock looked at John.

"Why is my coat on the floor?"

"Lestrade accidentally knocked it off when he left," John looked at the detective for a second and then returned his attention back to the television.

"Why didn't you pick it— oh right, sorry," Sherlock leaned down and grabbed his coat, slung it back over the chair and sat down. He fiddled with his hands while staring at John.

John could feel the man staring at him. It was like he was boring holes into the side of his head.

John turned his head to look at Sherlock, "What? Is there something on my face? Why are you staring at me?"

"I went to speak with Mycroft," Sherlock lifted his head, staring at the flickering light above the window.

"Oh?" This was news to John. Sherlock never went to speak to his brother. Mycroft always came to him.

"He found your shooter, apparently, wanted to know if I could help interrogate him," he smiled and turned his gaze back to his friend. "I received a very warm welcome by your would-be-assassin. He killed himself before I could get what I wanted out of him, though. Sad, really, I was so looking forward to the answers," Sherlock full on grinned now.

"Killed himself? What—How? He was tied up wasn't he?" John's face had shock written all over it.

"Cyanide pill hidden under his tongue, very unfortunate. I did learn one thing, though; His name. Viktor Dyachenko. Does it ring any bells?"

John searched his memory for any name that sounded familiar.

"Come on, John, think back. Mycroft told you about him along with three other people who moved 'within spitting distance of 221B', if I recall those exact words."

"The Russian assassin's last name," he gasped, finally remembering. She was one of the four Mycroft briefed him on that day. It seemed so long ago. "Wait, you said _he. _If I recall, your brother said the Russian was a woman, not a man. Unless she disguised—"

"Not the same person, John. Siblings more like it," Sherlock cut John off.

"So, wait…you're telling me her brother was, what? Watching me? What for?" John shook his head, trying to understand what Sherlock was getting at.

"He knew I was alive. He knew I'd come back sooner or later, and when I did, it would be at 221B. So he waited, bided his time until I showed up, happy little reunion. We both know how that turned out. Ruined his plan, really. He was waiting until I was alone, hoping to make a clean shot and a getaway without anyone knowing where it came from. But he's an impatient man, couldn't wait any longer, so he took chance, failed, and here we are. Nasty business, assassin with impatience, the two never work," Sherlock shook his head, folding his hands in his lap.

John grinned, somewhat happy to see the old Sherlock. He missed this, the crazy monologues after insane deductions.

"After I got done with Mycroft, I stopped by the flat, talked to Mrs. Hudson. She was happy to see me; nearly burst into tears when she saw my face. After that, I went across the way, checked out his flat he was staying in at the time; open window directly facing the sitting room, perfect for a clean shot to the back of the head for anyone sitting in a chair. Of course, we weren't sitting, standing in the middle of the room, somewhat out of his line of sight. Again, nasty business for someone in that field of work. It would never do," Sherlock twiddled his hands again, just getting to the good part.

"He had been staying there for at least a year, maybe two. 'Why so long,' you might ask? Like I said earlier, he knew I was still alive and would be coming back sooner or later. He also knew I was about 'dealing with things.' He's not the type to chase someone around until he got the perfect opportunity; he let his victims come to him. Very handy if you know who what their schedule is like," he stood abruptly and began pacing the room, smiling like a giddy school boy.

John was grinning from ear to ear, just listening as Sherlock carried on piecing together his deductions.

"He also knew what your schedule was like; normal, work during the day, drinks with friends at the pub, Chinese a couple days out of the week, possible visits from friends, but rare. So he decided to lay low, didn't want to cause a commotion or blow his cover."

"But why would he just want to kill you? If he knew I was associated with you, why not just kill me?" John asked.

"Good question! Now we're getting somewhere; he knew that if he acted too soon, his cover would be blown and he'd be shunned from the community. Assassin community that is, plus he said this, well he didn't really say it, but he didn't have to; he wanted me dead for what Mycroft did to his sister. He knew he had no chance getting to Mycroft, so he chose me, the next best thing."

"Okay, but that still doesn't tell me why _I_ was the one that got shot."

"You were an accident, something that got in the way right as he pulled the trigger. Collateral damage, if you want to call it that," Sherlock shrugged and continued to pace.

"Collateral damage," John repeated. "Okay, so, what else? Why did he wait if he knew where you were off to? He must have known you were staying places, why not choose one of those to stake out until he got his chance?"

"Another good question! Sparkling form today, Doctor, job well done. Because he also knew I didn't stay in one place for too long. I kept moving, never staying in one area for more than a couple days. I had heard of him the first week I was gone, knew he was hunting for me. He was getting his information from somewhere and I knew who it was. I cut his information feed and that was when he decided to stay where he was. But Dyachenko was clever, yes, but not clever enough. I figured out he had other sources following me and cut those as well; that's when he figured out I would be back. I was slowly making my way back to London and he figured out my plan; bring down Moriarty's web and then go back to living the way it was before."

John could only stare, flabbergasted at how much Sherlock had figured out in just a few short hours.

"Wow," he breathed. "Welcome back, Sherlock Holmes. Quite a present, isn't it?" John motioned to his shoulder and laughed. "So how did Mycroft find him?"

"Easily enough; he used traceable rounds. Ignorant on his part, really. Honestly, he should have known better. He slipped once and that was his downfall," Sherlock stopped walking about the room and plopped down into the chair.

"How was your visit with Lestrade? Entertaining, I hope?"

"Oh, yeah, about that; He has a case for you and was hoping you'd be up for the job."

"That triple murder you guys were talking about when I left?" John nodded.

"The very one. So what do you say? You up for it? I won't be of any help until I can get out of this bloody place, so you'll be on your own for a few days," John shrugged and instantly regretted it, pain shooting through his shoulder, making him grimace and clench his jaw. Sherlock got up to move but John shooed him away. "Fine, just moved wrong."

"From what I heard," Sherlock sat back down and rested his elbows on his knees. "They're not all connected. It's your sloppy, run-of-the-mill handiwork, stripped of their clothes, so robbery gone amiss, but there's something else, something that's definitely not right; the unknown victim, our John Doe. Why was he stripped of his identification as well? There must be something special about him, something that the murderer didn't want us to know. I'll run by Scotland Yard and run everything by Lestrade, see what he can make of it. Until then, I'm staying here, even though it's mind-numbingly boring," the detective grinned at John.

John just shook his head and chuckled quietly to himself as he turned back to the television again for the millionth time, flipping mindlessly through the channels.

* * *

**_And we're back! Wow, this one is a beast! I hope you guys enjoyed that one. Things are starting to get heated! Just a little over 6,500 words and three days of non-stop writing and editing and throwing things out until this piece of happiness made itself known. I'm excited to see what you guys think about my deductions. They took some time to refine until they seemed logical. I just hope they're alright. _**

**_Let me know what you guys think! I love any and every feedback you guys throw at me._**

**_~Puff_**


	5. Author's Note

_**Hello my lovely readers! I'm sorry to say this, but updates will be coming once a week instead of a couple days apart. The reason for this being, I went on a camping/hiking/rock-climbing trip over the weekend and I had a little accident on a rock. Nothing too serious, just pretty banged up and bruised. But the next chapter should be out by this weekend. I'll be sure to make it long for keeping you guys waiting.**_

_**Thank you guys for sticking with me this long. I really appreciate all the feedback I've been getting, but a couple reviews from some other people wouldn't hurt. For those of you who are reviewing, THANK YOU SO MUCH! Like I said, feedback means the world to me.**_

_**You guys can also send me feedback on Tumblr at .com. There's a link on my profile as well. Really, I can't say thank you enough. But, THANK YOU!**_

_**~Puff**_


	6. Chapter 5 Part 1

_**Author's note at the end of the chapter, PLEASE READ!**_

_**Summary: Three years have rolled past Doctor John Watson since that horrific day at St. Bart's. During that time, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes has been busy taking apart Moriarty's web string by string. But there's one thing constantly on his mind; how is his blogger?**_

_**Rating: T for angst, drama, mentions of suicide, cursing**_

_**Slight OOC for John and Sherlock**_

_**Final Edit Word Count: 1,433**_

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock. BBC has claimed that right. I just do as I please with their characters.**_

_**I got my inspiration from Day One of reapersun's 30 Day OTP challenge on Tumblr. There will be a link on my profile if you want to check it out.**_

**_Enjoy!_**

* * *

John floated high above the London cityscape. He watched as the miniscule people bustled about on the streets below him, awestruck at the beauty and magnificence of London.

The Shard glimmered and shined like a diamond in the mid-day sun. The sunlight scattered and bounced off the glass, throwing batches of concentrated light in every direction. It gave off an ethereal glow to the higher parts of London, making it all that much more beautiful.

Hyde Park was nothing but a green speck below. Splashes of blue and pink, purple, red and orange from Kensington Gardens and little bits of yellow from the turning leaves gave it color and made it absolutely gorgeous in the sunlight.

He had forgotten how beautiful his city was. He forgot how beautiful the world could be. Ever since Sherlock's disappearance, a black cloud hung over him. For the first few weeks after, darkness consumed him and blotted out every emotion except despair and anguish, utter depression swallowed him whole.

John continued to look around him, still admiring the spectacular view. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, soaking in the heat from the sun and letting the light dance upon his eyelids.

Sherlock was seated in the chair near the window, staring solemnly at the bustling noise and commotion below on the street. He looked to the skies, watching the white clouds and bright blue sky with little attention. He noticed a few dark clouds off in the distance, the promise of rain written in the creases and folds in the surface.

The detective looked away from the window. He looked around the room aimlessly, anxious for something to do other than sit. Licking his dry lips, his eyes landed on John. He wanted more than anything for John to be out of this white-walled room and back home at 221B. Thankfully though, today was his last day in this dreadful place. John could finally go home, but it was bed-rest and no strenuous activity until he was completely healed. Sherlock would have to work alone for a while.

As Sherlock kept his eyes on the doctor, he noticed a slight smile pulling at the man's cheeks. He let his lips lift a little as he watched. It wasn't the first time the detective had seen his blogger smile since his return, but it still made him happy to see the man like this and not like when he'd first come back.

He knew his absence had done a number on John and he hated being the cause of so much pain and anger. He wanted to be the source of happiness and smiles again. He wanted to hear John's laugh and his incessant nitpicking about the experiments in the fridge and on the counters and kitchen table.

Sherlock slowly made his way to John's bedside, still keeping his eyes trained on him. The heart monitor droned on but faded into white noise as the detective focused on John's breathing. Closing his eyes, he just listened, losing himself in the lull of John's steady pulse.

John opened his eyes slowly and looked around him at the changed scenery. He was back in the flat. Everything was the same except for the yellow smiley graffiti that adorned the walls, the black chair, the skull on the mantle, the millions of papers and music sheets strewn about the place, but most important was the person that was missing. Sherlock wasn't anywhere to be seen.

He made his way to Sherlock's bedroom, hesitantly opening the door. It wasn't Sherlock's room. The bed, the bedside tables, everything was gone. In their place sat a desk and some filing cabinets. Bulletin boards littered the walls and various types of papers were pinned haphazardly to those. It was like he hadn't even been there at all. Fear shot through John at this realization. Is this what the flat would have been like if he had never met the consulting detective?

If his conversation with Mike had gone differently, if he hadn't of asked his friend, 'Who would want me as a flatmate?' is this where it would have taken him; to a life without Sherlock Holmes? An ordinary, dull life of working regular jobs, possibly a long term relationship where he didn't have to worry about Sherlock purposefully forgetting the woman's name, where John didn't have to worry about disgusting, half-rotted heads in the freezer or various beakers strewn about the entire flat holding a plethora of dangerous concoctions. Just the thought felt so foreign. He couldn't fathom a life without Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.

His hands found their way to his locks as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He didn't like this dream. Not one bit.

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock felt his way around the room to the seat next to the window again. He sat down again but kept his eyes closed, hues of pink and yellow dancing behind his lids. The detective let his head drop back to rest on the back of the seat, letting himself a moments rest.

No matter how hard he tried, the memory rose to the surface; the floor soaked with John's blood, more oozing from the wound to join an already too big puddle surrounding his body, hands covered in it as he grabbed at John and pressed into John's shoulder to stem some of the blood flow, tears pricking his eyes as he thought he'd lost his closest friend.

Sherlock knew pain, knew how to deal with it, to use it to his advantage, but this type of pain burned white hot in his mind, consuming everything else in a blaze that destroyed him. It was the pain of losing someone you cared for, someone you would do anything for. It had felt like his entire world had come crashing down around him.

Sherlock finally understood how John felt. For the first time since they'd met, Sherlock could sympathize with his friend.

John eyed the empty space around him, tears streaming down his face. He wanted to wake up and be rid of this nightmare. Hands pulled at his hair as his eyes clamped shut, willing himself to go back to the hospital room where Sherlock would be waiting for him.

He beat his hands against his head, pinched himself, and kicked himself, anything to wake up. He could faintly hear the beeping of the monitor and doubled his efforts. He shook himself, finally resorting to smashing his fist into the wall in anger. He felt the crunch of bone and clutched his hand to his chest.

His eyes flew open to find Sherlock standing over him with both his hands spread out in front of him defensively.

* * *

_**I am so sorry for such the long wait! I've had writer's block to the max and haven't really been able to push through it, which is why this chapter is so short. And I'm sorry for that as well. Hopefully within the next week or so, I'll get my muse back and I can get to work on longer chapters and publishing them quicker. **_

_**This is a kind of part 1, I guess you could call it, to this chapter. Part 2 will be out within the next couple of weeks if my schedule will allow it. **_

_**Again, I am so sorry for not getting this out sooner, I've just been going through some stuff and writer's block is a bitch. **_

_**I want to thank you, if you've stuck with me this far, it really means a lot to me. **_

_**~cheeseypuff**_


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